Brained
by Relativity1953
Summary: A hunt at a haunted library leaves Sam wondering just what happened to his brother. no spoilers. this fic has crack-y origins.
1. Chapter 1

This fic started as an idea for drabble writing. I closed my eyes, flipped through my handy dandy crossword dictionary (sort of like a thesaurus), and pointed at a word. As I couldn't think of anything for 'OPEC', I tried again and the word gave me this idea. I wanted to write a drabble or series of drabbles (all using different words in the dictionary). Failing that, I thought that maybe each part of this story could be a drabble. Failing that... miserably... Well, hopefully you'll like it just the same. And, it started out as crack and morphed into something - something sort of crack-y, but not totally. My brain does not work in exact fanfic terms, people. That's just the way it is. ~ Relativity

* * *

"Dean!" Sam ran towards his fallen brother. With the librarian's ghost taken care of, he could freely dig his older brother out from under the rubble that was once the reference section of Deer's Creek local library. He struggled with the large, hard-bound publications using only one hand, as his right arm was aching and bleeding after having lost the battle with a few of the Deer's Creek stag statues scattered around the local history section.

"Dean, man," Sam said more to himself than to his brother, "come on. Talk to me. I know you're under here... somewhere..." Sam had seen his brother thrown into the teak shelving that housed the many volumes of Encyclopedia Britannicas and Americanas. He had already pulled a dozen or more Roget's Thesauruses, along with various almanacs, atlases, and telephone books from the debris. While he, himself, had outgrown his 'big' brother somewhere near a decade ago, he knew that Dean could in no way be characterized as small. The fact was, Dean was a six foot tall, muscular, thirty-year-old man. He should not be so easy to lose amid a bunch of texts and plywood.

Well on his way towards panicking, Sam almost cried out in relief when he heard a soft groan from within a tomb of Merriam-Websters, Random Houses, American Heritages, and Oxford English dictionaries.

"Dean!" he began pulling off the last of the heavy tomes with new vigor. "Dean, dude, you're almost free, man. I'm getting you out of there. How ya feeling?"

Another groan, a little stronger than the last, and some movement accompanied the final book removal. Sam got his first look at his brother and gulped a bit. Who knew a few books could do such damage? Along with the rips in his clothes and scratches on his skin, some of which were already bruising in an awesome array of blues and purples, there were deep paper cuts on Dean's hands, forearms, neck, and face. On his left temple – actually spanning from the above his left eye to just behind his left ear – there was a long, sluggishly bleeding gash. And, from behind his right ear, down to his neck at his hairline, there was another wound matted with blood and paper. In fact, all of the blood Sam could see seemed to be tinted with ink from the unforgiving reference books.

"Dean?" Sam questioned. The blanket of books were now gone, but he wasn't sure if he should move his brother. He didn't know the extent of his injuries. But, really, they needed to get out of there. Sam could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance – but in this small town they wouldn't be distant for long.

"Dean? Can you move at all? I need you to talk to me, man. Need you to open your eyes."

Dean did as he was told and slowly opened his eyes. He blinked a number of times, at varying speeds and strengths, trying to clear his vision and his mind and remember what had happened, where he was, and was Sammy safe. And like always, Sam could see the instant the facts came back to him.

"Don't worry, man. She's gone. I took care of it," Sam told him. Seeing the proud, yet self-loathing look on his brother's face, Sam added, "couldn't have finished it without you keeping her attention."

Dean gave him a crooked smile. The one that told Sam that he was still disappointed in himself – especially having seen the state of Sam's right arm – but that he was grateful to his little brother for trying to give him some credit.

The sirens were getting louder.

"You OK to move?" Sam asked him, holding out his left hand to help his brother out of the pile of gazetteers. "_Should_ you move? Can you walk?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a raspy wheezing sort of noise. He grabbed Sam's hand instead of trying to speak again and Sam noticed for the first time that Dean's throat seemed to have a large lump. A book must have hit him in the throat and it had swollen. Sam was just thankful he didn't seem to have too much trouble breathing.

Dean took a step away from the destroyed shelving and nearly fell flat on his face when his legs gave out beneath him. Sam's speedy, one-armed grab was the only thing that kept him from taking another fall. Dean gave his brother a quick smile of thanks and a pat on the uninjured shoulder, then carefully walked out the back door – Sam trailing him with his arm at the ready should he need to make another quick catch – just as the front door of the library began the lengthy process of being broken into by the proper authorities.

* * *

The ride back to the motel was pretty uneventful. Though, Sam had been surprised that he didn't have to wrestle the car keys from his brother. In fact, Dean handed them over before Sam even had the chance to ask for them. His older brother also gave no indication of annoyance when Sam failed to use his turn signals. Of course, Sam was driving one-handed and anything other than simple turns of the wheel would have meant that he either had to take that one hand off of the steering wheel completely or use his bloody hand. Perhaps Dean just felt that the lack of turn signals in the dead of night with no other traffic on the roads was the lesser evil.

* * *

Once back in their motel room, Dean of course played the big brother and would not allow Sam to do anything until he had examined, cleaned, and mended Sam's arm. Only then did Dean get into the shower to rinse off the ink and dust from his skin and out of his wounds. The paper cuts and scratches were left to heal on their own but he allowed Sam to put some Steri-strips and liquid bandages on the head wounds, and Sam considered that a win.

After performing any and all tests Dad had taught them, Sam decided that Dean did not have a concussion and the two finally went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam awoke the next morning to the sounds of rustling paper and the aroma of coffee. Turning his head to the left, he saw Dean sitting at the table at the front of the room, reading a newspaper by the thin shaft of light coming through the almost closed curtains. He smiled to himself as he sat up and reached for the coffee his brother had left for him on the night stand between their beds. Instinctively, he grabbed the Styrofoam cup with his right hand and was happy when it only elicited a slight soreness.

"You know," he said, finally getting Dean's attention, "you're going to ruin your eyes like that. You could have opened the curtain a bit more. Or turned on the light. I should be getting up anyway."

Dean gave him a half smile and then nodded toward his arm.

"It's OK," Sam told him, placing the cup back on the nightstand and flexing his hand, then testing the movement of the arm itself. "A little sore, but nothing terrible."

Dean's half smile turned into a full grin and he went back to his newspaper, opening the curtain a little more.

"Don't tell me you're looking for another job already."

Dean looked over at his little brother again and shook his head. He turned the paper around so that Sam could see the page three headline about the strange break-in at the library. The police had apparently found some blood and damages but nothing seemed to have been stolen. They blamed the incident on no-good local teens.

After getting the basic idea of the news item, Sam smiled and Dean folded the paper and placed it on the table. It was the first time Sam noticed that his brother not only had a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, but also a glass of ice water. It was also then that Sam realized Dean had yet to speak to him. He looked at his brother's still slightly swollen throat.

"How are you feeling, man?" he asked and Dean shrugged in his non-committal way – the same response he always gave after being banged up and thrown around. Sam knew it meant something along the lines of 'achy and sore, but I can still hunt and don't need a trip to the hospital, thank you very much.'

"How's the throat?"

"Improving," Dean told him in a harsh whisper then took a sip of his coffee.

"You know," Sam said with a laugh, "the 'C' is for compression." But then, when had Dean ever done things completely by the book. Dad had taught them the RICE treatment method ages ago, but Dean had long since changed the acronym to mean 'rest, ice (water, in this case), _coffee_, and elevation.'

Dean simply smiled at him and took another sip of coffee.

* * *

It was over two weeks later that Sam finally decided something was wrong. He wasn't sure _what_ exactly was wrong, but something was definitely not right with his brother.

Sure, Dean's wounds healed and his voice came back. Sam made a joke or two about having enjoyed the quiet while it lasted but the fact of the matter was that, even though the swelling had gone down, Dean continued to be less than his normal, vocal self.

Not only did his brother remain subdued but Sam also noticed that his music was always turned down low, to the point of barely being background noise. The television, too, was practically on mute. When it was even turned on at all.

These facts alone made Sam take notice, but what seeped into him slowly were the things Dean said. He didn't have much to go on, but looking back, Sam realized that Dean's speech had changed.

* * *

Two days after the library hunt, Sam brought up a new case. He was nearly finished telling his brother the details when he noticed Dean was quietly laughing. When asked _why_ he was laughing, Dean said:

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news Sam, but I'm afraid you've been had. That tale is older than both of us. It's an urban legend, and not one of the authentic legends that we specialize in."

Sam, being embarrassed about falling for the story, failed to notice anything strange at the time.

* * *

Five days after the library hunt, two days into a case involving a teenage girl dabbling in witchcraft to assure her place as head cheerleader, Sam asked Dean what steps they should take to stop the girl. Dean was quiet for a moment, deep in thought, then said:

"Summer hasn't gone completely dark side yet. She's just a sixteen-year-old, wannabe hippy compensating her average popularity with charms and spells. Hopefully, reminding her of the Wiccan Rede and the law of three-fold return will also remind her of her original motivations for following the goddess and praising the elements, or whatever. Of course, we'll also want to confiscate any dark magic paraphernalia and spells."

* * *

Seven days after the library hunt, while driving towards a small river town with a bad case of grindylows, Sam admitted to having no idea how to get rid of them. Without taking his eyes off of the road, Dean said:

"Well, a grindylow is basically just an aquatic bogeyman or boggle. The best method of eviction should be a summoning spell, followed by quickly finishing a pre-made banishment circle. The grindylow cannot survive long outside of water."

* * *

Ten days after the library hunt, one day into a case involving gremlins that had taken up residence at a small convenience store, Sam asked Dean if there was a way to be sure that they would get _all_ of the little creatures. Dean's response was:

"While it's hard to know the exact number of gremlins in an infestation, getting rid of them is like exterminating insects. The key is the golden flaxseed. It's poisonous to them. And, like insects, scouts locate and transport food to the nest for all to eat. The trick is getting the scouts to take the bait. Which is why we mix the flaxseed with pumpkin seeds and submerse them in whiskey – preferably a Japanese whiskey like Yamazaki, but I suppose a single malt Scottish whiskey will work in a pinch."

* * *

Twelve days after the library hunt, while researching a string of deaths of PTO members, Sam asked Dean what he thought their cover story should be. Dean said:

"Well, lucky for us this is a PTO and not a PTA, so the group is independent and not formally affiliated with the state and national PTA. Also lucky for us, this PTO is looking for new and exciting after-school activities and events. As the group might look oddly at two single men with no children trying to join them, I think the best way to approach the situation is as brothers-in-law. My pregnant wife, your sister, is in the hospital due to placental abruption and we have moved into town early so that everything with the new house is in order for when the baby is born and both mother and child can come home."

* * *

Thirteen days after the library hunt, after everyone in the small community bought Dean's cover story without question, and after having discovered that the PTO deaths were all caused by some sort of poisoning, Sam asked how they should go about trying to find the killer. Dean told him:

"Since we've already established ourselves within the PTO and _you_ have deftly discovered that all of the victims were poisoned with arsenic-laced sugary baked good, I think we need to suggest a bake sale fund raiser. And by _we_, I mean _you_, as you are the one who got a good look at the tainted treats and have most if not all of the PTO women salivating after you."

* * *

Fifteen days after the library hunt, after arguing for over a day with Dean that the only reason the PTO women were 'salivating' after him and not his brother was because of Dean's imaginary pregnant and distressed wife – to which Sam was sure his older brother had planned all along just to see his kid brother squirm – they had narrowed down the PTO poisoner list to three soccer moms. PTO president Carole Bradley, VP Shirley Kincaid, and treasurer Jane Bradford.

Sam was getting more and more worried about the changes in his brother's behavior. He had thrown a rug over a hastily drawn devil's trap and lured Dean to follow him over it. The trap had no effect on his brother. It did, however, stop Carole from handing an overly iced cupcake to Shirley.

"Wow Sam," Dean praised him, "that was quick thinking. I never would have guessed that rug had been altered or removed. When did you have the time to assemble the trap? Not to mention where you had the holy water and journal covertly stashed."

* * *

Sixteen days after the library hunt, after exorcising the demon wearing Carole Bradley and destroying all of her baked goods, Sam hesitantly asked Dean is he was feeling OK.

"I feel fine Sammy. Actually, I feel better than fine. Much better. I feel outstanding, purposeful. The hunt was successful in every possible way. We exorcised a demon and saved the unfortunate woman she was possessing. And, we were able to prevent the agonizing demise of countless others in that town. All in all, I'd say I feel... well, significant."

* * *

Eighteen days after the library hunt, while searching for the grave of Scott Manns, the crooked chief of police that had been targeting those responsible for bringing him to justice, Sam made a comment about having read of a similar case while he was at Stanford. Of course, in that case, it was the live disgraced ex-officer going after people and not a ghost. Dean responded:

"Either way, it's a sad state of affairs. Power corrupts, as they say. It's just a shame that, in our society, we need someone to police our police. These are men and women that are supposed to uphold the law and instead they are creating a mockery of system to which they are a part of. And, if that wasn't bad enough, once caught they fall even further into moral depravity and commit one of the ultimate acts of odiousness. I don't know what's worse – your Stanford case or chief Manns, who is perpetrating his acts postmortem... Ah, here's the grave, Sammy."

* * *

It was time to call Bobby.

* * *

**A/N**:

The Wiccan Rede: An it harm none, do what ye will. It is a statement that provides the key moral system in witchcraft-based faiths.

The Rule of Three-fold Return: whatever energy a person puts into the world, positive or negative, will be returned to that person times three.


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby sat in his favorite overstuffed easy chair and thought about the voice mail messages he had just listened to. For the fifth time. Each.

He found the messages at about 9:30 and, after he listened to them the first time, he felt a little like laughing. And, if the content of the messages hadn't worried him, he would have. After all, how many times did he get a message from each of the Winchester boys, not three minutes apart, both claiming to be worried about the other?

* * *

The first message, recorded a couple hours earlier at 7:34 pm, was from Dean. His voice was a bit on the quiet side and Bobby could hear movement. Knowing Dean, the kid was probably pacing while he talked.

_Hey Bobby... I think I need some help... It's Sam. I don't know what's going on with him, but he's been acting strange for a week or two now. It was little things at first – odd looks, pensive expressions – well, more so than normal. _(nervous laugh)

_But, it's escalated. He seems jittery, on edge... it just seems as if he's waiting for something to happen... something to leap out from the shadows... _(deep sigh)

_I don't know. I know I'm not making much sense. See, I know he isn't possessed... _(barely whispering)_ again._

_He's said _Christo_, performed an exorcism, been in contact with rosaries and holy water and salt... but..._

_I guess I would just like a second opinion. _(another deep sigh)_ Could we, maybe, swing by... maybe? We've just finished a hunt and we aren't too far from you. Sam's gone out to pick up some dinner. I thought that, perhaps we could head to your place in the morning. _(almost a question)_ I'll tell Sam you called with a job or something._

_Thanks Bobby. Thanks._

(snap of cell phone closing)

* * *

The second message, recorded at 7:36 pm, had been from Sam. Bobby could hear the roar of the Impala in the background and figured that the only reason the calls were a couple minutes apart was because Sam needed time to get in the car and start driving.

_Bobby, it's Sam... Winchester._

_Bobby, I'm worried about Dean. Is there any way he could be possessed and still walk through a Devil's Trap? Or not flinch when you say _Christo_? Have no reaction to holy water or salt or iron? He's still wearing his amulet and silver ring... I've even tried the EMF meter and nothing._

(long pause while deep in thought)

_But something is wrong. He's been acting different for a couple of weeks. Well, not acting too different... he's quieter than usual. But the stuff he says... words he uses... it's just not Dean._

_Look, we're not too far away from you. We just got done with a case and are taking it easy tonight. I would really appreciate it if you could call him or something. Maybe listen to him yourself? Tell him you got a job for us or something so we can come by and you can see him yourself._

_I really appreciate it Bobby. Thanks... thanks a lot. See you tomorrow. Bye-bye._

(beep of cell phone ending call)

* * *

Bobby listened to the messages another dozen times before finally coming to a conclusion. There were really only a few ways this thing could go. One, the boys are simply making one another crazy and seeing things that aren't there. Of course, that sort of thing has only happened once before and Bobby was pretty sure they had learned their lessons after the Trickster the first time around.

Two, Sam was possessed and Dean was worried. Or, Dean was possessed and Sam was worried. Well, they both seemed worried about the other, but not terribly so. After all, they let the situation go for a couple of weeks and neither one seemed too worried about his own safety, let alone his brother's.

Bobby looked at the clock on his wall. It was closing in on midnight and he had finally decided on what to do about the boys. He dug himself out of his easy chair and wandered into the kitchen. He smiled to himself as he looked over at his automatic coffee maker. Birthday gift from the boys. Best damn invention there ever was.

He reached into his cupboard and grabbed a new filter and coffee grounds. He filled the machine with water and added a special little surprise. Then, he set the clock alarm to begin brewing at 10:00 am.

Dean and Sam may have been the sons of John and Mary Winchester, but they were _his_ boys. His to look after and his to protect. And Bobby would get to the bottom of this problem. That was for damn sure.


	4. Chapter 4

They pulled into Bobby's Salvage Yard at a little after 10:00 am. Bobby was sitting in an old lawn chair on the front porch and waved as the boys walked up to the house.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said, sounding stiff and unbelievable. "So, what's this hunt you have for us?" Dean gave his brother a funny look, but he was standing slightly behind Sam so only Bobby saw it. Bobby, for his part, was a much better actor than both boys put together and took the awkwardness in stride.

"And hello to you too, Sam. So nice to see you both," he smirked. "Why don't you boys come inside? I got some coffee that ought to be done brewing about now."

"Sounds good to me," Dean said with a smile, following Bobby into the house. Sam climbed the few steps and followed as well.

"Sit, sit," Bobby told them with a nod towards the kitchen table. He grabbed three mugs from the cabinet and poured some of the fresh coffee into each. Then, taking two, he handed one to each of the boys. Finally, he grabbed the last mug and sat between the two.

Dean breathed in the scent of the coffee and then took a long, appreciative swallow. After putting some sugar into his mug, Sam took a careful sip of the hot liquid. Bobby sat and watched the boys, waiting, studying. And, as both Winchesters thought that the whole set up was a ruse for the other, neither said anything in the midst of the silence.

Dean's mug was nearly empty when his vision started to get fuzzy. He put his mug down with a clatter and looked up when he thought he heard one of Charlie Brown's teachers if he wanted more coffee.

"Bobby?" he slurred, then face-planted on the table.

Sam set his own mug down and stared. He tried to make sense of what he just saw but his brain felt like it was sloshing around in his head.

"Bobby?" he asked, clearer than his brother, but edging towards a mumble. "What did you give him? What does this mean?"

"It's just a little something to help him sleep," Bobby explained, putting his left hand on Sam's shoulder. With his right, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of his 'special ingredient' and set it on the table in front of Sam.

Sam looked at the bottle, but had trouble reading the label. It was then that he noticed Bobby's mug. It was still filled with coffee.

"Bobby?" he started to ask, a little worried. "Wha's... benzo... diaze-" and then joined his brother in an impromptu nap on the kitchen table.

* * *

Sam was just starting to come around as Bobby was finishing the last knot on Dean's right arm. He knew he'd made the right choice in binding Sam first. After all, Sam was bigger and had had less of the sedative. Not to mention, all those strong medications had always wiped Dean out. It was obvious to Bobby who would be waking up first.

"Bobby?" Sam muttered, the single word taking too much energy to say. Not that that would stop the kid. "Bobby what's going on?"

"Well Sam," Bobby told him, moving to the still-unconscious Dean's left arm and wrapping a length of rope around it, tying it to the arm of the chair, "I tell you – it's weird enough to get a call from one of you boys telling me that something's wrong with your _brother_. It's another thing all together to get messages from the both of you, near enough at the same time, asking me for help to figure out what's gotten into the other."

"What? But-"

"So, I figured," Bobby interrupted, "I'd help both of you out, just like both of you asked. But to do that," he finished the knot and moved to the table to clear the coffee mugs away, "I had to figure out which of you was lying and which was the one I really needed to help. But then, I came to a conclusion all on my own. You know what that was?"

"Bobby? What? I-"

"I said, 'do you know what I figured out?"

"No, Bobby," Sam was so confused. "No, I don't"

"I thought to myself, 'what if something's wrong with _both_ of the boys?'" Bobby, then, grabbed a flask that Sam was sure held holy water, opened it, and then splashed some in Dean's face, causing him to begin struggling towards consciousness. The struggle didn't last long and he was out once again.

"Bobby, I told you on the phone that I already tried-" but Sam's words were cut off when Bobby turned to him and splashed him in the face with the holy water. All Sam could do was blink and lick the water from his lips.

"Well, neither one of you is steaming. That's a good sign," Bobby said conversationally. When the older hunter turned and walked towards the kitchen counter, Sam saw what looked like a toolbox. That was when he started squirming.

"What is that?" he asked, trying to twist his arms, but Bobby's knots held tight. "What is that, Bobby?" he asked again, panic seeping into his voice. He looked across the table towards his brother who didn't seem to be bothered by the sudden commotion.

"Don't worry Sam," Bobby said kindly, bringing Sam's attention back to him. "This is just some stuff I gathered up to determine what I'm working with. It's nothing that's going to hurt you. Well, it doesn't hurt humans. Demons and ghosts and such... well, that's a different story."


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby tried every test he could think of. Holy water, salt, iron, _Christo_, crosses, silver, rituals and spells of every kind. There were even some herbs and chants that Sam was completely in the dark about.

Once he was pretty sure that Sam was Sam, Bobby sat at the table and took a breath.

"How you doing, Bobby?" Sam asked in concern. Bobby seemed completely worn out.

"Not terrible," the older hunter huffed. Performing all of the necessary incantations took a lot of energy. And he was no spring chicken. Bobby was just happy that both of the boys stayed in their chairs after going night-night. He didn't think he would have had the strength to move them around. "Why don't you try telling me what this is all about? I mean," he looked at Dean, "I think we got some time left before Sleeping Beauty wakes up."

"Yeah, about that," Sam said, forgetting for a moment that he was still bound to the kitchen chair, "did you give him more of the benzo... benza... sedative than me?"

"It was in the water," Bobby told him, not forgetting but not acknowledging that Sam was still bound to the kitchen chair. "You know how that boy inhales his coffee. And how anything stronger than an aspirin knocks him on his ass."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam said to himself. He was well aware that his older brother had a much higher tolerance for pain than for pain medications.

"So," Bobby started conversationally, still not completely convinced at letting either young hunter free, "why don't you give me the story straight, Sam?"

"Well, we were on this haunted library hunt," Sam conveyed the details, knowing that a simple 'long story short' wouldn't suffice. "I really didn't notice anything strange for a while. It was more a - 'looking back I should have known' sort of thing. I mean, he was quiet and used... un...Dean-like... sorts of words...

"There is just something... not right... about the whole thing. But, I swear Bobby, I took care of that librarian. I am one hundred percent sure that she is one hundred percent gone."

"And every test I know to try says that neither one of you is possessed," Bobby conceded. "There are a couple of questions I'll want to ask your brother when he wakes up," he said, looking at Dean. The boy hadn't moved a muscle. Bobby couldn't help but grin. "_If_ he wakes up."

"If?!"

"Relax Sam. I was just joking."

Sam took a deep breath. He tried to change his position, as the old wooden kitchen chair was not exceptionally comfortable. Then he remembered...

"Hey Bobby."

"Yeah."

"You mind untying me?"

* * *

Sam and Bobby had been researching, trying to come up with explanations for Dean's sudden quiet behavior and expanded vocabulary. At first, one would stay in the kitchen while the other went to find the book or ledger or journal that would prove or disprove a theory. But, after a time, they both found themselves settled in Bobby's library behind stacks of texts and Sam's laptop, no closer to finding a solution than when they had started.

Sam noticed the sound of creaking wood but had ignored it as normal background noise. However, ignoring the sound only lasted until the potential significance made its way into his brain. Then, he was out of his chair and running to the kitchen, Bobby hot on his heels.

Of course, by the time the studious hunters got there, Dean was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam stood just inside of the kitchen doorway and stared. How could he not have realized that the sound he heard had been Dean escaping? No, not Dean. Dean was not the one that they were trying to keep captive. It was whatever was using Dean's body that he and Bobby wanted to detain. And now it was free and his older brother was along for the ride. Where could it have gone?

"Sam," Bobby snapped. Sam looked up and found that Bobby had already opened the back door and had started to leave. "There's no where to hide in here, kid. And he couldn't have left the way we just came in or we'd've seen him." Sam still stood on the same part, looking as if his brain was having trouble keeping up with what Bobby was saying. "Come on!"

They were just getting to the heart of the salvage yard when they heard the unmistakable sound of the Impala starting up.

"Oh crap," Sam mumbled and took off at top sped for the front of the house. He got there just in time to get a face full of dust and dirt for his trouble. He was coughing badly enough, as panting from the run caused him to inhale quite a bit of Bobby's driveway, to hear the pick-up that had pulled up beside him.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted from inside. "Get in! Come on!"

* * *

"Damn it," Sam grumbled, jabbing the 'end' button on his phone. He had been trying to call Dean for the last five minutes – once all of his coughing had stopped – but only got the voice mail. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to call his brother, but Sam couldn't honestly say he believed Dean would pick up.

He shook his shaggy head, trying to clear it. The fuzziness seemed to keep coming and going. But now, in his moments of clarity, Sam could think again. And he did. And he thought of something.

"Bobby," he turned to the older hunter who had yet to say anything during their drive, "is this happening to him, too?"

"What are you talking about Sam?"

"My brain. It keeps going from hazy to clear and back again. I'm assuming it's because of the sedative," he told Bobby, getting clearer every second. "Is this happening to Dean, too?"

"Well," Bobby shifted in his seat, "my guess would be yes. Only..."

"Only what, Bobby?"

"Only, I'm a little worried that it'll be worse."

Sam just stared at him.

"Well, think about it kid. The sedative got to him more than it did you. The side effects probably work the same way. That's why we got to get to him before something happens to him," Bobby told him, then lowered his voice, almost talking to himself. "That's why I'm worried about him driving."

Sam heard, though he wasn't sure if he was meant to or not. But it did bring up another point.

"Bobby, where are we going?" he asked. The dusty trail of the Impala had completely disappeared now that they were driving along a paved road.

"Well, up here along this road," Bobby said with a nod of his head toward the windshield, "there's a hole-in-the-wall, little town that your daddy liked to go to whenever he was around. There's not much there, but there are a couple of greasy spoons that are good for a home cooked breakfast. There's also a half dozen bars and a couple of pool halls. If your brother's feeling a bit touched in the head, he's certainly not going to risk his precious car by driving while woozy."

* * *

It was just after four o'clock and they had not yet found Dean. The diners had been easy enough to check, most of them had small parking lots at the front of the buildings and the Impala was noticeably absent. There were two that they had to actually drive around in the parking lot – one because the lot was large and at the back of the restaurant and the other because it seemed the place for truckers to stop and it was impossible to see past all of the semis without driving up and down all of the rows.

"Bobby, it's already getting dark."

"Yep," the older hunter said, "day's been overcast. Looks like a storm's coming in fast. 'Course, it'd start getting dark in an hour so so anyway."

The bars had been placed along the outskirts of the little town. Apparently, the townsfolk hadn't wanted a taproom or pool hall at the center of its community. That was fine for the people that lived here, but for Sam and Bobby, it made the search just take that much longer. Whereas the diners had been in a nice row down the main strip, the bars were scattered and strategically placed to make Sam more anxious.

Like Sam, Bobby had hoped that Dean had just found a place to get some good old fashioned, non-spiked coffee. Something to clear his head before moving on. But, when had luck ever been in a hunter's favor?

They had to look closely at the cars in these places, too, since muscle cars and black cars and black muscle cars were not so uncommon. All in all, it was taking too long.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry about the posting delays, folks. Two children battling colds and a husband that is trying to get rid of one has thrown my RL for a loop. I am trying to get this story finished up. Hopefully, the words will begin to come again. Thanks for your patience! ~ Relativity_

* * *

When Bobby had been a boy, he had had a great-aunt who took immense, mean-spirited pleasure in mocking and arguing all of the adages her husband liked to use. If he said, 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with one footstep,' she would tell him it would be much better if that one footstep was into a car or onto a train. If he said, 'Anger is one letter short of danger,' she would yell at him and tell him that, yes, she could read. If he said that something was in the last place he looked, she would laugh and say, 'Well, why the hell would you keep looking after you found it?'

As true as that last thought may have been, it was also true that Dean was in the last place they looked. That is, he was, of course, in the last place they had planned to look (before getting really worried and stressing about coming up with a plan B).

Bobby had almost driven past Gino's Ginmill when Sam shouted for him to stop. Backing up the old pick-up, he looked to where Sam was pointing. There, hidden in shadowy darkness, nearly invisible to the naked eye, sat the Impala. Luckily, Sam had spent his childhood thinking of the car as home and, to a lesser degree than Dean, had an almost sixth sense for locating it.

"What's the plan Bobby?" They both knew that they could not simply go into the bar and haul Dean out. One, it was nearly seven o'clock and the place was pretty busy and they couldn't afford to have the cops called. And two, Dean would not go easily.

Bobby parked the truck near the Impala and the hunters got out and started for the front door. They both scanned the parking lot (filled with trucks, muscle cars, and motorcycles) and the building they were heading towards. They were both hunters through and through, after all.

"We need to go about this casual-like," Bobby told him. "Let's get in there and find him, but try and blend in. I think we need to stake out the front and back door and wait until he leaves on his own. Then, we can get the drop on him."

"But Bobby," Sam said before Bobby could open the front door of the bar, "what if the ghost, or whatever's possessing him-"

"Sam," Bobby interrupted, "I am ninety-nine point nine percent positive that your brother is _not_ possessed."

* * *

Sam looked around. The place was a typical, sleazy dive. The music was loud, the lights were low, and there were any number of shady people looking to start a fight. Great. Just the sort of place Dean – _his_ Dean – would pick out.

Luckily, Sam saw Dean before Dean saw them. But, of course that was because he was in the typical Dean place to be – back of the building, gambling. And of course, his brother happened to find a place with a decent-sized Texas Hold'em game going on. Just another one of the extra senses Dean seemed to have.

Bobby took an open spot at the bar, watching Dean through the mirror directly in front of him. Sam had a harder time blending in and finding a place to observe the poker game. He walked along the outer edges of the bar and eventually sat himself down in a small, dark booth – near enough to see the game, but not enough to really hear.

From what Sam could see, Dean was doing pretty well. There were six players in the game and Dean's stack looked like one of the larger ones, though not the largest. He and another man – one who was dressed almost too well for the surroundings – were about even chip-wise, and there was another big and scary looking guy that had quite a bit more than either of them. The other players didn't look like they needed to be worried about. Two were wannabe biker boys without the skill or courage to ever truly be tough. And the last player was a college kid who, from the looks of things, was about to find out that playing poker in real life was a lot different than on-line.

What the short-stacks apparently didn't realize was that the cards in your hand only meant so much. These three guys played as if the cards on the table were for them alone and the two cards in their hand were the only things that mattered. Sam watched as his brother read all of the naive players' tells and made quick work of two, while the sharp-dressed man took out the other.

The big guy was harder to read. He had gained the most chips by simply sitting back and taking hands here and there, folding quickly with others, and seemingly had no real strategy. It wasn't until the game had dwindled to three that the guy started losing his advantage, little by little, until Dean and the suit forced him out and the two were left with heads up action.

* * *

The game went back and forth between Dean and the suit. Both men were good, trying to read the other and give away nothing. The contest had gotten a lot of attention. It seemed the big guy wanted to see how it all ended – as did a good number of equally big and larger friends.

It was just after nine and Sam took stock of his surroundings once again. The college kid and his friends had long since gone, as had the wannabe bikers. The bar was full of beefy guys, older construction workers, and women in tight denim and/or leather. Most seemed to be watching the poker game with quiet excitement.

Sam was starting to get a bad feeling. There were too many unknowns. Bobby fit into the scene for the simple reason that he looked like any of the other older, hard-working men in their coveralls or jeans, a flannel shirt, and a baseball cap. Sam, though... Sam should have stuck out. However, no one paid him any notice.

Dean and the suit. The two men sitting at the poker table stood out. The suit more so though. He really didn't look like he should be there. He was too well-dressed for this place. Even if he hadn't been a manual laborer or biker – like the college kids – he still stood out like a polished, manicured nail against all of the sore thumbs in this place.

With that thought in mind, Sam took another look around. That's when he noticed that a good number of the large biker-types, including the big guy from the game, were not so much interested in the match, but were instead interested in the suit winning.


	8. Chapter 8

This part has a flashback towards the end - in all italics. In the section, I think it is pretty obvious, but I wanted to make sure I mentioned it.

* * *

Sam looked at the piles of chips in front of Dean and the suit. The suit was up, but not by much. Sam felt a little bit of relief seep into his chest. Maybe if the suit won, they could get out of here without any problems. Then, he immediately felt guilty about hoping his brother would lose.

The next time Sam looked over at the half-lit Miller Lite clock, it was ten to ten, and this time Dean was up. By more than a little bit. Gino's Ginmill started clearing out – it was a weekday, after all – and the only folks left were the staff, the suit's apparent friends, the three hunters, and a few older barflies that didn't seem ready to call it a night.

Sam was getting more and more nervous. He wanted to know if Bobby was getting the same vibe that he was but he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. When he and Bobby had gotten there, the place was fairly full of people. Now, not so much. If he stood, removed himself from his shady corner, and walked over to the bar – the bar in the center of the room, with the best lighting in the place – he was certain that most, in not all, of the patrons would notice the out-of-place college-aged kid. He just really didn't think that would help the situation.

Sam watched as his brother both nickel-and-dimed the suit and took larger, more substantial pots. And, by eleven o'clock, Dean forced the man to go all-in, only to beat the suit's king high flush with a full house of twos and sevens.

There was a look that passed between the suit and the big guy, then between the big guy and his bigger friends. Sam was just about to stand up and try to intervene, when Dean beat him to it.

"Well," Dean said with an 'aww shucks' smile while he pocketed his winnings, "that just doesn't seem fair. That has to be a one-in-a-million chance... a two-seven off-suit beating a suited king-queen. Tell you what, the night's still young. You guys wanna go again?"

Dean looked at the suit and the big guy, making his invitation to the two men clear. The two men, in turn, looked at one another, a little bewildered. Obviously, they had not expected their prey to suggest a game in which they could _and would_ win their money back. Both men gave Dean wobbly smiles. The big guy nodded and the suit said something about Dean being kind after already winning.

"Doesn't even feel like a win," Dean told him, signaling for the waitress. "Like I said, that was pure luck. If – I mean, _when_ – I win," he said with fake, goofy cockiness, "I like to feel like I earned it."

"Another beer?" the forty-something waitress asked him.

"Yes ma'am," Dean told her with a polite yet ogling smile. "Oh, and let me have a shot of vodka as well, if you please."

The woman gave him a nod and walked to the bar with a happy, contented smile to give the barman the order.

* * *

It took Sam a moment to fully comprehend the situation. His thoughts went quickly from, 'That's the signal' to 'huh?' and stuck there. That was his signal – Dean's way of telling him that he knew there was trouble. When it was possible to have an every day sort of conversation, he threw in the phrase 'funky town' or 'deep thought.' When he had to be more subtle (in a bar), he ordered a bottle of beer and a shot of vodka.

* * *

"_OK, Sammy," Dean said, holding an already bloody rag to his still bleeding head, "we need a signal."_

"_Signal?" the sixteen-year-old asked, nervously steering the Impala back towards the motel._

"_Yeah, you know, for when I get a bad vibe about a place. For when I think, 'hey, there's a very real chance that I may be thrown head-first over the bar and into all of those bottles of liquor if I go ahead and win this game.'"_

"_But, I thought we already had a signal."_

"_We do," the twenty-year-old told him, patiently as possible with his brain-splitting headache and many lacerations, "but we can't always use those signals. Not without them being noticed anyway. How about this? I'll order a beer-"_

"_How am I going to pick out which of the many times you order a beer-"_

"_Let me finish!" Dean snapped, then winced as his head throbbed all the more. "There's this drink... it's called 'Danger.' It's made with a bottle of beer and a deciliter of vodka.-"_

"_A what?"_

"_Almost two shots. That work better for you?"_

_They pulled into the motel lot and Sam quickly got out of the Impala to run to the passenger side. He didn't help but he hovered, making sure Dean would make it safely into their room. Dean took in his little brother's appearance and felt bad for losing his temper. The kid looked scared half out of his mind and Dean could see his hands shaking._

_And why not? This was the first time something like this had ever happened. And, Dean knew that as much as he hated when Sam was picked on or hurt, Sam hated it just as much when it happened to Dean._

"_So," Dean continued once they were inside of the room and Sam had come back from the bathroom with a new towel and the first aid kit, "the drink is called 'Danger.' It would be kind of obvious if I asked for it by name. But, if I order a beer and a shot of vodka..."_

"_It means there's most likely danger."_

"_That's my boy."_

* * *

It was their signal. **Danger**. Sam didn't know whether to be happy that Dean had somehow noticed his presence (without his little brother even realizing it) and had enough faith to signal his dilemma to Sam, or be disappointed that, not only could he not go undetected, but he didn't even know Dean knew he was there.

Before Sam could delve too deeply into his quandary, Dean gave the closing signal: he excused himself to go to the bathroom before starting the next game. Every bar they had even gone to had either a back door or a bathroom window to leave by. They always made sure to check before the situation call for it.

Sam fished a few bills from his wallet to settle his tab – he knew it couldn't be much since the waitress practically ignored him all night. He waited a moment so that he did not leave immediately after Dean – pretty suspicious behavior from someone that already stood out.

As he walked toward the front door, Sam glanced over to the bar and at Bobby's back, hoping to make some kind of quick eye contact through the mirror. With the older man's ball cap, it was hard to tell if he had succeeded, but he was less worried about Bobby than Dean as, again, Bobby blended in a lot better. Besides, they had two cars in the lot. He could call Bobby and they could meet up later.

Right now, Sam just wanted to get to Dean before the suit realized he wasn't coming back and sent his goons after him.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry about the delay, folks. Sick children and hectic schedules kept me away. Then, of course, it was difficult to get the story flowing again. Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. ~ Relativity

* * *

Sam was almost to the front door when a loud, carrying voice stopped him.

"Hey, kid!" the waitress called out from back at the booth Sam had just vacated. "Don'cha want your change?"

Sam felt eyes on him from every direction. He began to wonder if he had left larger bills on the table than he had thought. But, that couldn't be it. He didn't have any large bills on him. Not to mention, he didn't think the waitress would be the sort to question a (large) tip...

"Keep it," he told her and rushed to the front door. There were definitely fewer people at the poker table when he looked back to address the waitress – a lot less muscle than when he left his seat.

* * *

Bobby covertly watched Dean win the high stakes game and then suggest another. It had surprised him, sure, but he figured the kid was up to something. And, when he went off to the bathroom, Bobby knew he wasn't coming back. Ordering another drink, though – that was a nice touch.

He also saw when Sam quickly glanced at him through the mirror or his way to the front door. Just before the waitress called out to the young man, Bobby faked a phone call.

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and made a show of checking the caller id. Then, with a heavy sigh, he began a one-sided conversation while hoping his phone didn't ring for real in the middle of it.

"What," he grumbled, smiling on the inside when the bartender and a couple of the guys around him looked up and tried to innocently listen in. "Just havin' a drink... Just a couple'a beers... No, I ain't gonna be out all night. I just wanted-... Fine... I said _fine_!"

With the phony call finished, Bobby snapped the cell phone closed and grumbled, _Ya old battle ax_. His fellow barflies made sympathetic noises and the bartender walked over towards him.

"Guess you'll be wantin' your tab then, eh?"

"Not especially," Bobby told him, "but it beats having to listen to her rant and rave again when I get home."

The bartender took his money, gave him his change, and thanked Bobby for the tip he left, then waved him off with a, _Good luck_, and turned back to the other patrons none the wiser.

Yep, Bobby thought to himself, I still got it.

* * *

Sam had just stepped out of the bar, when he came face to face with two very large bikers. The two men, one about Sam's height and the other even taller, looked Sam up and down. Assessing him. And Sam could tell from their twin sneers and the way the each cracked their knuckles that they were not going to let him pass without a fight.

But then, the door to the bar opened again and out stumbled Bobby.

"Hey," the man slurred, "ain't you Timmy, er Tommy, um Tony... You're Ralph's boy, right?" he asked drunkenly as he made his unsteady way towards Sam.

"Yes sir?"

"S'me," Bobby kept on, grabbing the kid's arm. "Jack Mytton. Live next door to yer daddy."

"Right," Sam said, playing along.

"Lissen, I mighta had jus'a... jus'a teeny bit too much'ta drink," Bobby said, beginning to drag Sam away from the bikers, who parted to allow the men to pass, unsure about this new twist in the situation. "Be a good boy an' gimme a lift home, yeah?"

Once the hunters were around the corner and out of the bikers' lines of vision, Bobby let go of Sam's arm and quickly walked toward the rear parking lot.

* * *

As much as Sam hated it, he knew Bobby was right. The older man had kept Sam from running to the parking lot when the sickening sounds of kicks and fists to flesh became audible. They had to be more stealthy, take their opponents by surprise, and not let them call out for back-up.

The hunters crept as quickly as they could, keeping to the shadowy areas of the lot. They watched as Dean got in a few good shots – the bloody noses and disheveled appearance of his adversaries proving that he was doing well. But, he was wearing down, as the six burly men continued to attack.

Just a step or two before Bobby moved out from the darkness, Sam could do nothing but watch as his brother received a sucker punch to the gut, immediately followed by two of the bikers grabbing his arms and running him head-first into the trunk of the Impala. After the impact, Dean crumbled to the ground and Sam saw that the force of the strike was enough to dent and pop open the trunk lid.

"Kindly step away from that boy," Bobby told the assaulters in a deep, commanding, and pretty darn scary voice.

As if by instinct, the leather-clad giants did just that. But, after taking a step or two back, they seemed to regain their own minds and looked up to see who this new addition to their party was. And, Sam could see the exact moment that their contempt and readiness to begin a new fight morphed into self-preservation.

"Unless, of course," Bobby continued, "you'd like to see what a backside full of buckshot feels like."

* * *

Sam crept around Bobby and made his way to his fallen older brother. He made sure to keep Bobby and his shotgun between himself and the bikers, knowing that they couldn't afford to give a foothold to their enemies.

Bobby waved the shotgun back and forth, watching as the burly bikers pulled themselves together into a tight-knit group, making Bobby's job of keeping them all within his sights just that much easier. He then took a step forward, the other men mimicking his move as if the hunter had some sort of invisible force around him keeping them at a certain distance. He kept moving forward – they kept moving back – until he was standing next to a line of motorcycles. He noticed the way some of the men shifted on their feet, looking at a specific bike, and he new that the line of cycles belonged to them.

Bobby heard the creak of one of the Impala's doors being opened and the muffled grunts of Sam hefting his brother into the back seat. They were almost clear.

"Sit in the back with your brother," Bobby called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off his hostages. "And make sure to bungee that trunk down, boy. I don't want it flying up while I'm driving."

Sam didn't answer but Bobby could hear the movements that told him the kid was obeying the commands.

"We'll be right on your tail, old man," one of the biker's sneered, a couple others grumbling in agreement. "This isn't over."

Bobby heard the Impala start up and then the slam of the back door. He glanced at the bikes he stood next to and didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. These big, tough 'bikers' were riding a bunch of foreign crotch rockets and street bikes. There wasn't an Indian or Harley in the bunch. Somehow these idiots didn't realize that they looked plain silly – wannabe roughnecks riding on, well, just about the furthest thing from a cruiser that was possible.

On the other hand, it took away any guilt Bobby may have felt when he kicked the closest motorcycle, causing a domino effect knocking one bike after another to the ground. While the 'bikers' were whimpering over the destruction, Bobby ran back to the Impala, hopped in the driver's seat, and peeled out of the parking lot.

"What about your truck?" Sam asked quietly from the backseat.

"I'll ask Dan – a civie buddy of mine – to tow it to the yard in a day or two."

"What about the bikers?" Sam asked, looking out the back window, waiting to see the single headlights following them.

"Relax Sam," Bobby told him. "Them machines ain't like bicycles that you can drop and pick back up like nothing happened. Dropping a motorcycle causes a lot more damage. Those guys ain't going anywhere tonight."


	10. Chapter 10

"Twice! Two times, Bobby! Two head wounds in-"

"Calm down, kid," Bobby tried to reason with the nearly six and a half feet of scared little brother currently pacing in front of him. The boy had been wearing the old rug thin for almost a half an hour now. Half an hour since they high-tailed it out of Gino's, got back to the salvage yard, and replaced all protections – for both supernatural and plain, old human visitors. Half an hour since they laid Dean down on the sofa, cleaned his wounds (nothing terribly serious), and checked him for a concussion (which he unfortunately had). Half an hour of watching Sam's nervous energy and frankly Bobby was getting a little dizzy.

"Calm down? How can I calm down-"

"You said it yourself, Sam," Bobby said with composure, though he was not fool enough to try the victim/witness voice on the kid, "that knock your brother took a few weeks back didn't result in no concussion. And you know as well as I do that there ain't no harder head than a Winchester head."

The joke didn't get the reaction Bobby was hoping for. Instead of lightening the mood, Sam seemed to fold in on himself even more. When the kid looked at Bobby, the old man's heart nearly broke at the sorrow shining in the boy's eyes.

"Bobby, I can still remember how many Bs I've ever gotten. I can remember how many schools I've attended. I can even remember cell numbers, birthdays, and anniversaries of my friends from Stanford – and not marriage dates, but first dates, first kisses, first holidays together... All those things I remember.

"You know what I don't remember? What has happened to my brother so many times that I have actually lost count? Head wounds. Hell, injuries of any kind. I'd hate to think of how much blood he has lost in the last thirty years. How long before they all start adding up? I mean _really_ adding up.

"I looked it up once, you know. The effect of multiple concussions on a person. Sure, the studies and evidence have had conflicting results, but they give some ideas – possible ideas of what to expect. Things like: memory deficits and loss, the very increased chance of developing Alzheimer's... not to mention clinical depression and other psychiatric disorders..."

"Sammy..."

"No, don't try and tell me that all his injuries won't result in something terrible someday."

"Your brother's tough, kid. Hell, all you Winchesters are tough. Your brother's gonna be OK. Just like he always is."

"Yes, just like always," Sam muttered in disgust. He finally took a seat between Bobby and his unconscious brother. "How many times has he been thrown into a wall, into a headstone, into anything solid and just gotten up as if everything was fine? Through the years, I may have only heard him get out of bed once or twice to run to the bathroom and vomit, but I'm sure it happened a lot more than I knew about. And, of course being Dean, he always acted like nothing was wrong. There were all the headaches he tried to hide, the blurry or double vision, the light sensitivity – he got pretty good at hiding it all. From other people, anyway."

* * *

Neither Sam nor Bobby slept. They may have each rested, but neither actually got any sleep. Dean had awoken about an hour after they had gotten back from Gino's, but then fell asleep moments later. And, Sam had been able to wake him a few times during the night, each time getting a better response from his brother. Dean hadn't spoken, but he seemed to focus more on Sam's face and what his little brother was saying.

It was a little after 8:00 in the morning and Sam had decided he would let Dean sleep until 9:00. Currently, he stared in his brother's direction, though he barely saw what was in front of his face. His brain was filled with images of Dean being hit or thrown into something and being rendered unconscious. He felt saddened and full of remorse – there were so many images, so detailed, so disturbing since they were all very real.

Bobby was in the kitchen cooking up some breakfast. The sounds and smells of coffee percolating, bacon sizzling, eggs popping and heating, and breakfast potatoes frying were making Sam salivate without even realizing.

So lost in his own head, Sam startled when Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. It was only luck, though Bobby would have argued it was talent, that kept the plate of food in the man's hand from ending up on the floor.

"Sorry Bobby," Sam muttered. He didn't feel like eating and was therefore surprised when the first nibble led to a larger bite and then a larger one after that.

"Slow down, kid," Bobby told him with a smile as he brought a mug of coffee out to the end table next to Sam. "There's plenty more."

"I didn't even know I was hungry," Sam told him, blushing immediately afterwards, having spoken with his mouth full of food. "This is great," he said, scooping up another heaping helping of scrambled eggs and home fries. Soon, all that was left was the bacon and a mound of grits, both of which were also quite tasty.

"Well," Bobby said, digging into his own meal, "you have your brother to thank for the eggs and potatoes."

Sam glanced at Dean, who was now stirring on the sofa, and then back to Bobby. Something resembling a 'huh?' came out of his mouth. Luckily, Bobby was fluent in grunts, grumbles, and other such noises – he had spent a lot of time in the company of John Winchester, after all.

"Yeah, apparently mine were too bland for his highness. Way back when – when you boys were just kids – you all came to stay with me after a hunt gone slightly sideways. Your daddy got rid of the golem, but he and Dean had some nasty injuries..."

Bobby cut himself off, not sure if discussing past wounds was really the thing to do. Especially after Sam's mini-breakdown last night. However, instead of upset, Sam looked as if he was searching his memory.

"Anyway," Bobby plowed ahead, hoping to keep any new emotional floodgates closed, "Dean started going through my spices... Hell, didn't even know I had'em. He takes out a few and tells me I should add tarragon to the eggs and garlic and paprika to the potatoes. He also said I should get some olive oil so I could use that instead of vegetable oil for the potatoes."

Bobby laughed to himself and took another bite of his eggs. He probably wouldn't admit it to Dean but, since that time, he always used those spices and the olive oil when making his eggs and potatoes. It really did taste better that way.

"You know, I always meant to ask him where he learned how to cook. It sure as hell wasn't from John. That man could barely make toast. And Dean, well, Dean has given me a few helpful hints over the years."

Bobby noticed how quiet Sam was and looked up at him. Sam was staring at him. Bobby could almost hear the wheels turning in that head of his.

"Bobby," Sam finally blinked and said, "you said that the hunt was for a golem? When Dean and I were kids?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, almost in question.

"There were only two mentions of golem hunts in Dad's journal. One was a hunt he sent Dean on alone while I was at school. The other – the one you have to be talking about – I remember that one. I was there.

"The showdown was at the high school in town. The town was so small that it was right next to the grade school that Dean and I were attending, and Dean took a couple of advanced classes – science and math – at the high school. He knew the layout of the building and figured out that it was the home ec teacher that created the golem."

"Home ec teacher?" Bobby whistled. "Sure wasn't what they taught in my day."

"And I don't think it will be added to the curriculum any time soon. But, I remember that hunt. It was one of the first ones I was allowed on. Dad started me off really slow, only bringing me along when he thought the situation could be well-contained.

"Before that hunt, I was only ever scared in a general kind of way. I was always kept safe and Dad and Dean only ended up with scrapes and bruises. I didn't know enough to be really scared about what _could_ happen."

"What _did_ happen?" Bobby asked quietly, so as not to break the trance Sam seemed to be in.

"We were in the home economics classroom. I was at the door – the lookout, I guess, making sure no one could get in and warn Dad if the golem tried to get out. Dean was taking a few shots at the thing, but mainly he was just there to back Dad up and hand him new weapons. And Dad, well Dad was throwing everything he had at it and the shots just got swallowed up in the clay.

"And, at one point, I guess Dad had moved around some of the tables or something and his gun jammed. The golem took the opportunity to head my way. Just before he could get there, Dean threw himself at the thing. It all happened so fast. The next thing I know, Dean is airborne, soaring into one of the kitchen stations.

"After that, all I remember is Dean was bloody and wouldn't wake up. To this day, I don't know how Dad stopped the thing..."

"What are you trying to say Sam?"

But, Sam was prevented – or possibly saved – from saying anything more, as movement on the sofa signaled that Dean was now awake.


	11. Chapter 11

Knowing that the fuzziness and pain in his head would only worsen if he tried to wake up too fast, Dean began his journey to awareness slowly. He knew where he was immediately, not because he could completely recall what had happened over the last twenty-four hours, but because he had spent enough nights on Bobby's sofa to know the comfort of that piece of furniture right away.

He could smell breakfast – good breakfast. Not that he would ever admit it to Bobby but the man made the best meals, not including the ones he could remember his Mom making, and breakfast seemed to be his specialty. And, beyond the clinking of silverware to ceramic, Dean could hear the soft mutterings of his brother and the man that was a second father to them.

Before he could tune in to the conversation, he began to feel restless. The space between awake and the need to be up and moving was never a long gap for Dean. So, as his eyes began to flutter open, trying to get used to the light in the room little by little instead of all at once, the murmuring stopped and he could feel the other occupants of the room staring at him.

"Well," Dean began before even looking at the other two men, "I'm not bound to a chair this time. I guess that's a good sign."

But then he turned his head and saw Bobby and Sam leap out of their chairs and start to hurry towards him. He must have noticeably cringed into the fold of the sofa because both men stopped in their tracks and then began approaching him as if he was an injured, frightened kitten or something. And that just pissed Dean off.

"So," he said, looking at Sam, implementing the long-used Dean tactic of avoidance, "does the injured man have to get his own breakfast?" He then looked at Bobby. "Or would I be better off getting it myself so that I don't take another nap real soon?"

Both men had the good grace to look guilty, but only Sam stayed that way as he knelt down next to the sofa Dean was laying on. Bobby, however, straightened up and took a deep breath. And Dean knew that was only the wind-up for the yelling about to come.

"Now don't you go taking that attitude with me, boy," Bobby said, voice raised but thankfully not to a shout. "Both of you two call me up and tell me the other is acting all weird and possessed... I needed to get to the bottom of things." Bobby huffed and turned around, as if to walk away. Then, apparently he decided he wasn't finished with his lecture.

"And another thing," he pointed an angry finger in Dean's face, "just what were you thinking running away from here? You don't answer your phone when your brother tries to call you. You don't stick around long enough to explain what's going on-"

"Wait a minute," Dean cut in, sitting up on the sofa so that Bobby's finger was no longer in his face, "I was supposed to explain things to you? How do you figure that one out?"

"I wasn't the one acting funny," Bobby said, moving his hand to point in Dean's face again. "I wasn't the one-"

"Well, we agree on one point," Dean told the older man, standing up. "I definitely don't find being drugged _funny_."

"And I don't find it very funny when you take off out of here like a spoiled little girl running away, leaving your brother here going out of his mind worried about you."

That took the wind out of Dean's sails, as both Bobby and Sam knew it would. Sam, however, felt that Bobby had crossed the line. How many times had their father used just such a tactic to keep his older son in line? How many times had Bobby witnessed and later admonished John for it? No, that was something Sam wouldn't stand for. So, as Dean paled, eyes going blank and body collapsing back down to the sofa, Sam rose from his kneeling position and stood between his brother and Bobby.

"OK Bobby," he said as calmly and quietly as he could muster, "that's a little below the belt, don't you think?"

Standing face to, well, chest to the youngest man in the house, Bobby's brain couldn't decide what he was feeling: anger, aggravation, anxiety. Funny how being scared for someone you care about makes you say all kinds of stuff you never intended to. Had he been thinking clearly, Bobby would have chastised himself eight ways to Sunday for what he just said. As it happened, Bobby wasn't thinking particularly clearly... yet, he had enough self-preservation to see the situation for what it was – there was a strong, youthful, giant in front of him ready to defend his brother from the perceived attack – and chose to retreat to the kitchen to cool off.

Sam, thankful that Bobby had given him a moment alone with his brother, turned to look at Dean again. He could see the sorrowful determination on his big brother's face and knew he was gearing up to apologize for leaving and making Sam worry. _Geez, Dean,_ Sam thought, _even Dad was never as hard on you as you are on yourself._

"Sam-"

"No, Dean," Sam cut in before he could get any further, "don't say it. There isn't any reason."

"But-"

"No buts," Sam broke in again. "I'm not going to start spouting off about how we need to talk more and be more open and all that crap..."

Dean looked up at him slightly incredulously, slightly amused. Sam sat next to Dean on the sofa and took a deep breath.

"The plain and simple fact of the matter is that we both thought something was wrong with each other," Sam told him. "Something _supernaturally_ wrong. And, if that had been the case and we started having girly little sit-downs to pour out our hearts... well, we both know how badly things could have turned out if one of us _was_ possessed or something.

"Let's face it. In our line of work, open and honest is not always the best policy."

"Damn, Sam," Dean said after a moment. "You sound so old and wise... I don't know if I really like it."

Sam laughed out loud. Whatever had happened with his brother, whatever had been going on to make Dean act so strangely, it seemed to be gone now. This was definitely the big brother he knew and... well, OK... loved.

But, as quickly as the thought came, just as quickly Sam remembered that there _had_ been something different about Dean. And, as Dean slowly stood up and made his way the the bathroom, Sam was determined to figure out what it was.


	12. Chapter 12

While Dean ate his breakfast and Bobby called up a friend – the one he planned to ask to tow his truck back from the bar to the salvage yard, Sam did what Sam does best. He researched. Only, this time, the research wasn't studying old books for obscure lore on some otherworldly creature. When he picked up Dad's journal, it wasn't really the hunts he was looking at. Sam was searching through his memory (with some help from Dad's journal) and trying to find more evidence – either to prove or disprove – his own crackpot theory.

On the legal pad that Sam was scrawling notes on, he had listed the recent library hunt, the golem hunt, the bar incident, and another job he only just remembered.

*

* _**1994**_ *

*

Sam was eleven and his opinion of hunting had been changed once again. When he was eight and found out the true nature of the business trips his father was constantly away on, Sam was scared. Who wouldn't be? With the finding and reading of one leather-bound book, he discovered that his mother hadn't died in a car crash and was instead murdered by a demon, that the nursery of their family home had nearly been burned away by said demon, and that his father went out by himself to intentionally search for these demons to try and... get information? exorcise? kill? them. Of course he was scared.

But, he also had Dean. The best big brother a kid could ever ask for. It was Dean who took care of him while their dad was away – even most of the times Dad was home. Dean made sure they had food and made breakfasts and dinners for the family. Dean was the one who packed Sam's lunch for school and made sure he did his homework every night – not that that was a difficult job, but sometimes back when he was still new to the homework thing, little Sammy would occasionally forget. Dean was the one who checked over Sam's homework and made sure that, if Sam got something wrong, he would explain how to get the right answer so that his little brother would learn the lessons.

Dean made sure that Sam always had clean clothes, that he took a bath and brushed his teeth, that he picked up the few belongings he had, and only watched TV during cartoon times or re-runs of The A-Team. Dean made sure that all of Sam's permission slips were signed, that Sam visited the doctor and dentist so that the school would have the records and not ask too many questions, and that Sam was never, ever picked on at school. Well, never picked on twice by the same kid anyway.

So, when Sam found out that monsters were real, he was scared – scared for Dad who hunted these monsters and scared for himself that the monsters might get him. But, he quickly learned that he didn't have to be so scared because he had Dean there to protect him and that was more than good enough for him.

When Dad was home, he took Dean (and later Sam, too) for target practice. He taught his boys how to use weapons and which weapon and ammo was the best for which monster. They were taught Latin, since there were prayers and spells and things only written in Latin... or, maybe it was because only Latin worked. Sam wasn't sure, but the knowledge of some of the language made him feel like he had another weapon. A weapon that was always there and wouldn't jam – well, that's what Dean said because he said that Sam's brain was the greatest weapon he had because he was a real smart kid. And, that made Sam try extra hard.

He was still a little scared of the idea of hunting monsters and stuff, but it also made him feel good. The Winchesters helped people that couldn't or didn't know how to protect themselves. Dean was right when he said that it made them like superheroes, and Sam was proud of his family and of himself.

But, everything changed with that stupid golem hunt. Dean and Dad had always gotten their fair share of bruises and bumps, of scratches and stitches and scars. Sam didn't like it but Dean told him it was like playing football – if you play the game, you are bound to get tackled now and again. Dean laughed when Sam told him that what they did was more like soccer – running, tackling, kicking, only without all the pads or a helmet.

After the golem hunt, Sam wished that what they did _was_ more like football – he would rather have his brother wear a helmet than have him knocked unconscious by an overly-intelligent golem that knew not to let anyone close enough to erase the aleph on his forehead.

After the golem hunt, Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to be a superhero anymore. And, he _knew_ that he didn't want that for Dean – if this is an outcome that could be expected. If a concussion is not only possible but probable. If getting a concussion is, as Dad had said, getting off lucky.

After the golem hunt, Sam refused to get out of the car when his father and brother tracked some ugly monster down. If Dean wasn't worried about Sam getting hurt, he wouldn't throw himself in the path of danger. Right?

When Sam was eleven, his opinion of hunting changed once again. He was stubbornly sitting in the back seat of the Impala, in a dark parking lot of a small strip mall. He grumbled to himself while blindly making notes on a legal pad for the essay he had due in less than a week. What he wouldn't give for a flashlight so that he could see what he was doing and actually _write_ the essay, but Dad had told him to stay invisible – that meant no light, no noise, no drawing any attention to himself. Which, really, that worked fine for him. Sam knew that poltergeists were more attracted to children and teens than adults. And, if he – the poltergeist magnet – was not in the shop, Dean would not be compelled to step between the noisy ghost and his little brother.

* * *

"What'cha working on, kid?" Bobby asked softly, the question also asking if he was forgiven for the outburst earlier.

"Just thinking... remembering," Sam said with a slight smile, telling Bobby that they were cool once more.

"You all had a hunt at a AAA?" Bobby asked, looking over Sam's shoulder as he passed. The man walked around the sofa Sam was sitting on and sat himself down in his easy chair.

Sam smiled to himself. He wondered if Bobby ever knew that he and Dean had been referring to that raggedy, over-stuffed piece of furniture as "Bobby's thinking chair" since they were kids.

"So," Bobby cleared his throat when Sam failed to answer his question. "What's making you think of past hunts?"

"OK, first of all," Sam started, "I know that this sounds crazy. In fact, I wouldn't even be taking this theory seriously if I heard it..."

"Yeah, yeah, it's strange and insane... sounds like life to me, boy. So, tell me this theory."

"All right," Sam laughed a little. "I was thinking of all of Dean's... talents..."

"Am I going to like where this is headed," Bobby asked, raising an eyebrow and sitting back as if to back away from the conversation.

"Very funny. No, I'm talking about things like Dean's ability to cook. You said it yourself. He certainly didn't learn from Dad. I can't imagine that he would have learned it from Mom, let alone remember what he'd been taught by her. And, to the best of my knowledge, he never took any classes. Not even in high school.

"Then, I got to thinking about our signal. Dean set it up almost ten years ago. When we're at a bar and he can't let me know there's trouble – you know, because it would be too obvious – he orders a specific drink. A shot of Vodka and a beer chaser. When he came up with it, he told me that there was a drink – mixing two shots of Vodka with a bottle of beer – named 'Danger' and that's how he came up with the signal...

"Anyway, I remembered this other hunt. I was in the car because I refused to be involved-"

"Oh yeah," Bobby said, "I remember hearing about the phase."

"Yeah, well, anyway," Sam huffed. "I was in the car, so I didn't see all of what happened. But, I looked up when I heard the front window of the AAA smash. The poltergeist threw Dad through it and then turned on Dean. That thing knocked Dean across the sizable office and into a wooden rack of road maps and atlases. It probably wouldn't have been so bad had there not been two sets of shelves. Dean hit the first one, then the second fell on top of him."

"OK, I don't think I've heard that tale before," Bobby said in confusion, "but I don't see what all of this has to do with anything."

"Have you ever seen Dean use a road map, Bobby? Have you ever seen him get lost when there _wasn't_ something supernatural involved?"

"What are you saying, Sam?" Bobby asked, feeling the deja vu from having asked the same thing only an hour before.

"Tell me I'm not crazy, Bobby," Sam said. "But is it even possible? Dean gets piled on by a bunch of library reference books and comes out speaking like he went to Harvard. He gets thrown head first into a bar's liquor cabinet and suddenly knows obscure drinks. He collides with a kitchen station in a home economics classroom and then starts telling you what spices to use in meals. He gets sandwiched between shelves of road maps and can find his way anywhere... unless the road was built after 1994. And let's not forget – he is used as a battering ram into the back of the Impala, where all our weapons and clothes and memories and _our lives_ are kept, and he wakes up like the same old Dean..."

Both men are silent for a while. Sam, because he is still trying to find the words to express himself in a way that won't sound completely unhinged. Bobby, though, was deep in thought for a different reason. The older man was searching his own memory and coming up with a hunt that fit in with Sam's nut case theory.

Bobby released a long, heavy sigh. Sam looked across the room at him, waiting to hear either agreement or laughter. Instead, Bobby surprised him with what sounded even more nonsensical than Sam's hypothesis.

"Buccaneers' Cove."

* * *

In a comment from chapter 10, StoryTagger asked, "why didn't John just destroy the holy words written on it [the golem] that brought it to life...that is the legend..."

Well, at the risk of sounding like I am simply trying to clean up my mistakes, I did add a little more to the hunt in this part. To be honest, I only skipped it in chapter 10 because it interrupted the flow of the conversation. But, in this part, it worked fine for me (maybe the right words came out because StoryTagger brought it to my attention).

But, if anyone is still wondering, John (in my story) did in fact know that he had to erase the aleph from the Hebrew word _Emet_ (meaning 'truth') to form the word _Met_ (meaning 'dead') to deactivate the golem. However, Sam only had a cursory knowledge (as John only hands out information on a need-to-know basis) of what was happening on the hunt and since he was relaying the story to Bobby, he might have left out some key facts.

Thank you, StoryTagger, for the comment! Please never be too shy to ask me questions about my fic. I love hearing from people and the questions and comments you all give help me to improve. The way I wrote the original scene made perfect sense to me, but I can see now that anyone living outside of my head may have been left wondering. So, thank you again, and I hope you keep reading!


	13. Chapter 13

This chapter and next are dedicated to sams1ra over on LJ, who allowed me to use a dusty plot-bunny for the basis of this hunt!

* * *

Sam waited and waited (and waited) for Bobby to say more, to possibly (hopefully) explain what _Buccaneers' Cove_ meant, but Bobby was too deep in his own head to share with the class. So, Sam finally gave him a little nudge.

"Bobby?"

"Hm?" then Bobby seemed to wake up. "Oh, um, what were you saying?"

"Actually, _you_ said something," Sam said, amusement barely concealed in his voice. "Something about a buccaneers' cove?"

"Yeah, um, about that..." Bobby hedged. "Sam, did your daddy ever teach you boys French?"

"What?" Sam was completely confused by the non sequitur. "No, no, just Latin."

"What about school? You kids learn languages at school, right? Did Dean take French in school?"

"No, as far as I can remember, we both took Latin in school as well."

Bobby paused in thought once more. He had always meant to ask one of the Winchesters about that but had never gotten around to it. Once things had settled down again, there didn't seem to be any point in dwelling on it. However, as Sam sat watching him expectantly, Bobby figured it was time to talk about the hunt.

Well, a watered down version, anyway. Bobby knew that some of the facts would upset Sam. No need to rehash _everything_ that happened right after the boy went off to college.

*

* _**2002**_ *

*

As he'd been expecting to hear the deep, familiar growl for over an hour, Bobby's ears picked up the sound of the Winchester Impala just before he saw the shiny black beauty. However, what he hadn't been expecting was the monster of a truck eating up the gravel and pulling into his yard in front of the smaller car.

_Looks like John finally found the right vehicle for himself_, Bobby thought with a smirk, remembering that the Winchester patriarch had at long last decided to hand the precious Impala over to Dean. The light in that boy's eyes shone brighter than the high beams of his daddy's new truck that day. Too bad the light dimmed to practically nothing just a few short months later, when his baby brother went off to school.

From the living room window, Bobby could see the two men exit their cars. But, while Dean started walking toward the house, John slammed his door shut and angrily stomped back to meet his son. Bobby couldn't hear what was going on but he could sure see from the way John's hands were pointedly flailing around and the rigidity of his back that he was madder than an old wet hen. And Dean, well Dean didn't look angry or upset or even intimidated. The kid simply looked like he wasn't there.

Finally, John threw his arms up in disgust and turned his back on his son, marching toward the house. Without a single change in his expression or even the customary eye roll and huff or breath, Dean followed.

*

* _**present**_ *

*

"You see," Bobby began his story, "I called up your daddy and your brother to get some help with a hunt that was leaving me stumped. It was January... after you'd gone off to school..."

Bobby halted his tale when he saw multiple emotions cross Sam's face. Bitterness for his father's lack of understanding and uncompromising stance on going into _the family business_... guilt for leaving his family, especially his older brother who had always looked after him... nostalgia for those days when he felt in control of his own life for the first time ever and was head over heels in love with a beautiful woman who returned that love... anguish for the innocent life cut short for the simple fact that she was in his life... and bitterness once more for being dragged back into the life he didn't want to embrace but felt he had no choice but to do so.

"Sam?"

"Been over four years," Sam said wistfully, "and the mention of Stanford still takes me back to... never mind. Please, go on Bobby."

"Well," Bobby started again, not really sure he wanted to talk about this ridiculous hunt but he not only thought it would help their current situation, but also bring a smile back to Sam's face. _Here goes nothing..._

"You see... the hunt was, um, at this, well, it was at a restaurant..."

"Yeah...?"

"It was one of them," Bobby took a deep breath and looked down. He'd never finish if he had to look the kid in the face. "It was one of them theme restaurants... a, uh, _pirate_ themed restaurant."

"Buccaneers' Cove?"

"Buccaneers' Cove."

*

* _**2002**_ *

*

"So, what have you got for us Bobby?" John asked, all business, as he joined his friend in the kitchen. He had sent Dean off to get their bags and then dismissed the boy, telling him to take their things upstairs to their normal guest rooms.

"What's going on John?" Bobby questioned, sitting a beer in front of the younger man and taking a long swallow from his own bottle.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't try and kid me Johnny," Bobby told him while sitting across the table from the man. "I saw the two of you fighting outside."

"The _two_ of us? You sure about that?" If pressed, Bobby would have to say that the expression on John's face was one of melancholy.

"OK, OK," Bobby gave in, "_you_ were arguing. And your boy, well, if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I would never have believed that Dean Winchester would take a talking to – even from you – without so much as batting an eye. What's going on?"

"I lost one boy already, Bobby-"

"You didn't _lose_ Sammy, John. He just went off to get himself a higher education. The boy's smart... you had to have seen this coming."

"Yeah, I guess I just chose not to. But it's been almost five months, Bobby. Five months," his sadness turning to angry disappointment, "and Dean still acts... well, you saw him out there."

"Yeah, I did," Bobby said, not sure if they had seen the same thing. "But, John, he did just what you told him to do. No arguments, no questions asked-"

"Exactly! Look, it's not that I want him to suddenly disobey orders, but this moping around has got to stop. He does just what I ask him to do but barely anything else. You know, he hasn't gone out to a bar in the last five months? Well, not unless I drag him there. He hasn't hit on a single girl in all this time. He hasn't been eating or sleeping very well. And he barely speaks!"

As John paused to take a breath, Bobby tried to say something, only to be cut off when the other man lowered his voice and said with something that sounded suspiciously like disgust:

"He's not four years old anymore, Bobby. He needs to grow up-"

Bobby was saved from having to hear the rest of that statement and John was saved from having a Bobby-sized boot print on his backside as Dean walked into the kitchen.

*

* _**present**_ *

*

"As far as I had it figured," Bobby told him, "something was haunting the place."

"Some_thing_?" Sam asked. Though as hunters they didn't consider a spirit a person, when speaking of a haunting it was usually discussed as a some_one_.

"Yep. I'd already looked into the history of the place. No human deaths in or around the site. Not even a case of food poisoning or a splinter from the, er, cast of the show."

"So," Sam deduced, "the haunting was linked to a person who worked there or an object inside the restaurant."

"Right. That's when I called in for reinforcements – there were so many people that worked there, what with the management, actors, stage crew, servers, kitchen staff, and maintenance workers."

"Yikes."

*

* _**2002**_ *

*

"This is getting us nowhere," John said in frustration, throwing down another employee file into the 'probably not' pile. That pile was easily the largest as John and Bobby had only felt confident enough to completely rule out less than a dozen people.

"It's the ship," Dean said quietly, without looking up at the two older men.


	14. Chapter 14

* _**2002**_ *

Bobby, sap that he would never admit to being, thought that Dean's quiet voice was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. It was certainly the first thing he had heard from the boy since his and John's arrival. John, however, didn't seem to think so.

"And just how did you come up with that?" he demanded, clearly irritated with the useless hours of researching he had just done. But, John _had_ been the one to tell – order – Dean to start looking at the other aspects and objects in the restaurant and show while he and Bobby went through the employee files.

For a moment Dean was silent, still looking down at the sheet of paper in his hand, and Bobby thought that he might just retreat back into silence after his father's harsh tones. But, Dean surprised him. The kid appeared to come to the end of what he was reading, put the paper down, and looked up at the two men across the table from him.

"You ever heard of the _Zebrina_?"

*

* _**present**_ *

*

"That sounds a little familiar," Sam said, "but I can't place it."

"You know," Bobby laughed, "your brother always had the strangest tastes in reading materials. The kid read some fiction here and there – some King, Bradbury, Vonnegut – but he would go from nothing but classic car magazines one minute and then find everything he could read about old Hitchcock movies the next."

"Yeah, I remember that," Sam laughed along. "Anything the he wasn't forced to read by a teacher... you know, I once caught him reading Hamlet? Wanted to make fun of him for it but I knew he would get me back so much worse."

"Yep, that sounds about right. Well, one summer when you all were at my place, Dean's interest of the moment was ghost ships. He read about the legend of the _Flying Dutchman_, the story of the _Mary Celeste_, and about _Zebrina_."

*

* _**2002**_ *

*

"The _Zebrina_ set sail from England to France in the 1900s," Dean told them. "Well, two days later, she was found a little farther north than intended, with little damage but with no crew."

"Well, thank you for the history lesson, son," John said, trying to keep his patience, "but we are a little busy right now-"

"John," Bobby warned under his breath.

"The ship at the restaurant," Dean looked down at his piece of paper again, "the _Naumachia_ was built using a few parts from the _Zebrina_. There is a detailed, though embellished, story about the old ship on the children's' menus."

*

* _**present**_ *

*

"And, after another hour of researching, it was your brother who figured out what we were up against."

*

* _**2002**_ *

*

"A matagot," Dean suddenly said. The three men were sitting amid piles of Bobby's books, resembling college students studying for finals.

"A matagot," Bobby repeated, he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it himself.

"A what?" John asked.

"It's a French spirit of sorts," Bobby told him. "Some folks have obtained them in the cockeyed notion that they can be helpful or bring wealth to the owner. And that can be true to a point. Only, the matagot is particular and can and will turn on you when it feels it's been done wrong. End result, the owner becomes the slave until he or she suffers a long, agonizing death."

"And," John turned to Dean, something looking suspiciously like pride in his eyes, "how did you figure that out?"

"Well," Dean said somewhat shyly, "the reports... there were reports of people hearing wings flapping, and recently a few people have said they'd seen a parrot out of the corner of their eye. The matagot usually takes the form of a cat, but it can be any animal."

"I don't remember seeing reports like that," John said, looking back through the witness accounts.

"Because most were stated as an afterthought," Dean told him. "Kind of a, _by the way_ thing. Most likely, people thought the parrot was a part of the show – they were watching pirates, after all."

*

* _**present**_ *

*

"Long story short," Bobby said, "it ain't easy catching a bird. Especially when the bird is not really a bird. And, especially when the restaurant wanted a little bit of authenticity and sat the boat in a pool of water. Weren't as bad as a sea cruise, but it was enough for us to be unsteady."

"What happened?"

"Well, we managed to take the dang-blasted thing out... along with six tables, a good portion of the ship, and a dressing room or two. I managed to get out with a busted lip, some nasty abrasions on my left side, and a big chunk'a table in my thigh. Your daddy ended up with a twisted wrist and a number of bruised ribs to go along with his bruised pride. Your brother... well, Dean, of course, took the worst of it."

"He wouldn't have it any other way," Sam mumbled.

"The matagot gave him a good clawing. There were two long lines on the right side of his jaw and up behind his ear, but mostly he was able to throw his arms up to block it. Thing seemed intent on scratching his eyes out. His foot went through a weak spot in the floor and his jeans were torn to shreds – his leg only looking a little bit better."

"And how did he hit his head?" Sam had to know.

"The ship was coming down around us," Bobby told him, "John and I were firing at the evil parrot over and over, but the dang thing was fast. One of our shots – couldn't even be sure whose – hit something that knocked a rope that bumped something else... I tell you, it was like that old mousetrap game you boys enjoyed so much. The final move was that crossbeam – the one that holds down the sail on the mast..."

"The boom."

"Right, the boom-" Bobby said, then looked up startled. Neither he nor Sam had seen or heard Dean walk into the room. But there he was, leaning against the doorway without the room occupants having any idea how long he'd been there.

While both Bobby and Sam knew that talking about a past hunt wasn't really a reason to feel guilty, they also felt that they were doing so behind Dean's back – therefore, there was a certain amount of self-reproach going on. So, as both men sat trying to figure out what to do next, Dean walked into the room and sat down next to Sam on the sofa.

"So, giving Sammy a replay of Dean Winchester's greatest hits?" Dean asked with a hint of amusement, extending the olive branch to Sam, but more so to Bobby.

"Just giving him the rundown of that ridiculous evil parrot at the pirate-themed restaurant hunt." He didn't mean to laugh, really he didn't. It was not an easy hunt by any means – long hours of research, an assortment of injuries between them. But really, who could describe such a hunt without laughing. Apparently Dean agreed as he laughed right along.

"Right," Dean smiled, and just like that, he and Bobby seemed to be on good terms again, "you were just telling him how I was introduced to the business end of the boom. I'd help you out but the damn thing hit me on the back of my head and things got a little blurry after that."

"The beam not only hit you, son," Bobby told him, a bit of old worry and pain filling his eyes, "it knocked you out and off the boat." He turned to Sam. "Threw him into some barrels at the side of the ship and they all fell overboard. And, if that weren't bad enough, he fell face down with the barrels on top of'im."

"Into the water," Sam said.

"Yep. Your daddy and I started shooting at that bird without stopping and one of us finally nailed him with some silver," Bobby told them, all mirth gone. "John, well, he ran to the spot where Dean went over and nearly jumped from the ship right then and there. I just barely got to him in time to remind him about his ribs.

"When we got down to the pool level, John rushed into the water and grabbed you, hauled you out," he explained looking at Dean again. "You weren't breathing and we started CPR. After a couple'a rounds, you coughed up all that water and were conscious enough to help up get you to the car."

"You know," Dean said, knowing what was coming and hoping to head it off, "if that place is still open, I think we should all go. Should probably get free tickets after that hunt. You think the manager would remember us?"

"Dean," Sam whined in that long-suffering little brother way.

"Next morning," Bobby plowed ahead, he was almost completely on-board with Sam's crazy theory now and wanted to see Dean's reaction, "I asked John and Dean if they wanted any coffee. John gave me usual affirmative grunt and Dean said, 'mercy we.'"

"Merci oui?" Sam asked, not sure if it was funny or not. He looked over at his brother and Dean looked away.

"That's right. All morning long, he's saying stuff that don't make a lick of sense to us. And John-" Bobby stopped short, realizing he didn't really want to rehash this part.

"Go on, Bobby," Dean said, voice full of pained acceptance. "I was delirious after the blow to the head and Dad thought I was intentionally being difficult. He yelled, I was confused, he yelled some more, and then stormed out."

"And when he came back?" Sam prompted hopefully.

"I got a call a week later to take care of a poltergeist in Maine and then to meet him within four days in New Hampshire."

"You know, Dean," Bobby said quietly, "I know a few different languages, but French ain't one of'em. And John... well, I think your daddy knew enough Latin to get by but was by no means fluent-"

"I wasn't speaking French, Bobby. I don't know French. I told you then and I'll tell you now – it was gibberish, nonsense. I was loopy after getting hit in the head. That's all."

* * *

Bobby walked into his kitchen to give the boys some privacy.

"Dean," Sam hesitated.

"Yeah."

"Can I just ask you one thing?"

"I think you just did, Sammy."

"Seriously, Dean." Dean rolled his eyes but nodded for his brother to continue. "OK, I know that this is going to sound really, well, strange but..."


	15. Chapter 15

The first time it happened... well, he didn't even realize _what_ had happened until later.

*

* _**spring, 1985**_ *

*

For the first time since Mommy died, since Daddy started _searching_ and then hunting, Dean Winchester made a friend. Actually, Jimmy Durruto approached him – the new kid in town, the weird boy, the quiet one. Jimmy, the guy that was surrounded by classmates, stepped out of the popular circle, walked up to Dean and introduced himself. And Stan Gomez wasn't happy about it one bit.

Every chance he got, Stan tried to worm his way between Dean and Jimmy. He said mean things about Dean when Jimmy wasn't around, made fun of Dean and tried to get him in trouble at school. So, it wasn't much of a surprise when, on the first warm day of the year, Stan and his older brother Steve walked over to Jimmy's house and watched the blush spreading on Dean's face with interest.

"You don't have a bike?" Jimmy asked, stunned. Dean just sort of shrugged and shook his head, clearly embarrassed.

"Well, my cousin lives at a 'partment and doesn't have a g'rage, so he leaves his bike here in ours. You can ride his if you want."

The pause Dean took was enough fuel for Steve, who was apparently even better at making fun of people than his younger brother.

"I don't know, Jimmy," he called out with a laugh. "That bike don't have training wheels. I bet Dean don't know how to ride a bike with no training wheels."

When Jimmy kindly offered his little sister's bike – Barbie doll pink with hearts and sparkles, and training wheels – Stan and Steve actually fell to the ground laughing. That was it. Dean Winchester was not a baby, and he was most definitely not a girl. Without a word, he sat himself on Jimmy's cousin's bike and began to pedal.

The problem was, Dean had not ridden a bicycle since the fire. Mommy told him he 'gragerated' from his tricycle and he had gotten to ride his shiny, new, red bike (with training wheels) for a whole month until the weather got too cold. He had not ridden a bicycle in almost two years and had never ridden without training wheels.

But, Dean was sure he could manage. And he did. For about half a block.

He felt the bike leaning to his left and tried to steady himself – overcompensating and falling over on his right side. He toppled to the ground, scraping up his right forearm and knee. Then momentum turned him over and he hit the back of his head on the hard ground of Jimmy's neighbor, scary Mrs. Prader's yard.

Jimmy's mom cleaned up his 'battle wounds' with care. Jimmy asked her nervously if Dean would have a scar. The woman smiled and told her son that she doubted it very much. Then, Mrs. Durruto turned to Dean and said with a wink, _But if you do, it's OK – chicks dig scars_. And, when she softly blew on the scrapes after applying an antibiotic, she thought the unfallen tears in Dean's eyes were due to pain, but it wasn't the abrasions or even the bump on the head that was hurting.

That night, while Daddy was researching, Dean told him that Mrs. Prader was responsible for the missing children in town. When Daddy asked how he knew, Dean told him that he had seen bones in her yard. He didn't, however, tell Daddy that he saw them because the boys had been digging in her yard or the bones were on the surface. And, Daddy had been so relieved that the job was coming to a close that he never asked Dean how he _just knew_.

* * *

It wasn't until the second time – a couple of years later – it happened that Dean noticed something strange going on. It wasn't until the third time that he realized just what was happening.

He had wanted to tell his dad, but he was afraid to. Dad hunted unnatural things and learning something by having an object hit you in the head was definitely not natural. Nor, as he found out, was it controllable. Yeah, who wouldn't take the easy way out of homework and tests and studying if they could? But, when Dean smacked himself in the head with his history textbook one night – hard enough to see stars – he still could not come up with the answers to his essay assignment. Stupid Roanoke Colony – seriously, when will he ever need to know about that?

No, this _gift_ was totally random. Apparently, he couldn't pick and choose what knowledge he wanted to acquire. That became apparent on the dumb – actually, quite smart – golem hunt. Taking a couple of advanced classes at the high school, Dean was able to sneak into the home ec classroom without much trouble. It was the best chance he would have to _test_ his _power_. So, the day of the hunt, he hid his school books around the classroom, figuring that, if he happened to get knocked in to something that night, at least it would be worthwhile.

When the golem swatted him away like he was nothing more than a fly, Dean saw the kitchen station quickly coming at him and had enough time to think, _Straight A's in literature, here I come_. Of course, when he woke up and found himself at Bobby's, he still wasn't sure if Jane Eyre, Tom Jones, and Robinson Crusoe were authors or book titles. But, he knew that 'pumpkin pie spice' consisted of cinnamon, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, and allspice, that chickpeas were the same as garbanzo beans, and that head cheese was the most disgusting thing he had ever heard of.

* * *

There had been a few times over the years that Dean had wanted to tell Sam about this strange little quirk. But, there were always reasons against it – Sam was too young and wouldn't understand or would let it slip to Dad, Sam didn't need to know that his big brother was even more of a freak than he already knew, Sam wouldn't believe him and laugh at him. No, he didn't really think these things would happen, but the fear was always there.

When Sam told him about the visions he had been having, Dean wanted to tell him. He wanted to reassure his little brother and let him know that he had some kind of mutant powers, too. But, while Sam had been keeping his secret from Dean for about six months, Dean had been keeping his secret for nearly Sam's whole life.

So, in the end, when Sam finally got up enough courage to ask Dean, "I know that this is going to sound really, well, strange but are you able to learn things by getting hit in the head?"

"Sammy, if I could learn stuff through some kind of whacked-out osmosis," Dean laughed, "why didn't I get straight A's like my geeky little brother, huh?"

"Well..."

"I got an idea. Why don't I jump through Bobby's books? You know, pile'em up like leaves and dive in. We'll never have to research monsters or demons or anything again!"

"OK, OK," Sam relented with a laugh of his own. "I get it. I told you it sounded crazy. I don't think I got enough sleep last night, what with being on concussion wake-up call."

Dean felt that it was much too late to come clean with it all now. Besides, he knew his Sammy. It would be endless questions and girly talks. Nope, he'd just have to be more careful after head injuries in the future.


End file.
